


First Date

by aeli_kindara



Series: Supernatural Codas [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Coda, Episode Tag, Episode: s15e14 Last Holiday, First Dates, Getting Together, Lebanon Kansas (Supernatural), M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27185362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: “We should go on a date. You and me.”Castiel wishes he could see Dean’s face. He wishes he had any idea what to say.“I’m asking you out, Cas.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Supernatural Codas [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877383
Comments: 191
Kudos: 1104
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	First Date

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 15.14 coda. It's kind of late. Um. Here it is.

#### (1.)

The Halloween that he was four years old, Dean dressed up as a sunflower.

He doesn’t remember that, but Castiel does. Castiel remembers most things about Dean, when he stops to think about it. There are some aftereffects of rebuilding a man’s soul with your own two hands that never really fade.

The Halloween that he was four years old was Dean’s first with a baby brother. He asked his mom for weeks what Sam was going to dress up as, until she finally gave in and bought a pudgy pumpkin onesie. That, Castiel thinks, was one of many things lost in that fire.

Other things included: the family photographs. Any evidence that might have existed of Dean grinning up at the camera, his face haloed by yellow fabric petals, his baby brother enormous in his arms. Christmases, Easters. The photos that survived — the ones Dean built a life on — were only the ones in the Impala glovebox. John’s wallet. His desk at the garage.

The Winchesters lost safety, and home. They lost a mother. In many ways, they lost a father. They lost a future where Dean might have been happy, where Castiel might never have known him at all —

But Castiel knows better. That was never a future. Not in the world Chuck wanted to write.

_We decided we’re gonna do Halloween,_ Dean says on the phone. _Pumpkin carving and everything. I know it’s the wrong time of the year, but — y’know. I mean, Jack’s never had a real Halloween._

He sounds a little defensive — like he’s worried Castiel will tell him the idea is stupid. Maybe like there’s something he isn’t willing to say.

Castiel smiles into the phone. “That sounds very nice, Dean.”

There’s a hesitation on the other end of the line. Then Dean says, _“You could — come. I mean, if you want. If you’re not too far.”_

Castiel sighs. He looks around; the windy truckstop, the lonely halogen lights. He isn’t too far.

But if he goes, he’ll interrupt his search pattern. All the assumptions he’s made about the frequency of Amara’s movements, the distance he’d have to be to ping his grace — he’ll have to start over from scratch.

“Dean,” he says, “I can’t.”

Besides, he doesn’t think he’d do it properly. Halloween. Castiel isn’t built for whimsy, however much he tries.

“But I hope you have a very nice and spooky time,” he adds, formally. He hopes he got that right as he disconnects the call.

He wonders if they’ll dress up in costumes. He tries to imagine what Dean would pick; he has no idea. He can’t help picturing him shining out of sunflower petals, even now.

\---

Castiel is deep in the Adirondack Mountains, a few days later, when Dean calls to tell him they’re celebrating the Fourth of July.

“The Fourth of July,” Castiel echoes.

His truck is nose-deep in a snowbank. It skidded off the road half an hour ago, and as hard as he works to dig it out, _apparently_ his grace these days is inadequate to both move tremendously heavy objects and keep his body warm. The snow is still falling thick and fast. He probably could have stuck to more navigable highways, anyway, tweaked his transect a little — what are the chances Amara’s lurking deep in these snowbound peaks? But here he is.

_“Yeah, you know,”_ Dean’s saying, _“burgers, beer, corn on the cob — Cas, are you okay?”_

“I’m — fine,” Castiel grunts. He tries again to roll the truck back onto the pavement — puts his shoulder into it. It doesn’t budge.

_“And you know, there’s no baseball on. But hell, I mean, Angels in the Outfield, that’s a classic. I’ve shown you that one, right?”_

Castiel pauses and frowns. He sifts through his memories; he can picture three-year-old Dean at a Royals game, his mother and father sitting on either side of him, but — oh, yes. “The — Walt Disney film,” he supplies. “I found it disturbing.”

_“That’s the one.”_

Castiel sighs. He looks around; there’s no help coming. “Dean, I’m going to hang up on you. I think I need to call A A A.”

_“Wait, Alcoholics Anon — oh, triple A? Cas, what’s wrong with your truck? Cas —”_

Triple A tells him a tow truck will be there in three hours. Castiel sighs, again, and goes to keep himself warm inside the cab.

\---

He calls Dean back the next day, from the coast of Maine.

Amara’s nowhere on his radar. None of the angels he’s spoken to have wind of her either. He could expand his search — Canada, Mexico? — but he doesn’t relish the thought. He could start all over again.

“How was the Fourth of July?” he asks Dean when he picks up.

_“It was — good.”_ Dean sounds a little distracted. _“Cas —”_

Then he stops talking. Castiel waits for a minute, in case he starts again, but he doesn’t. “Yes?” he prompts finally.

The speaker on his phone crackles with a gusty sigh. _“Nothing. How’s your truck?”_

Castiel glances back at it. “It’s fine. It was stuck in a snowbank. In the Adirondack Mountains.”

He can practically hear Dean’s blink. _“Oh.”_

They lapse into silence again. It’s — actually kind of nice, Castiel thinks. Watching the waves, listening to Dean breathing on the other end of the line.

_“Hey, uh,”_ says Dean. _“So we’re doing Sam’s birthday in a couple of days. Think you — think you’re gonna be back for that?”_

Castiel turns it over in his head. “I need to check something,” he says eventually. “My grace, it’s — not as strong as it used to be. It may be I’ve been basing my search radius off of flawed assumptions.”

He thinks he can hear Dean’s breathing tighten. _“Meaning?”_

“Meaning — I’d have to go over some areas again. It might take some time.”

It’s hard to read Dean’s voice. _“All in case you catch some stray Amara vibes somewhere. Assuming she hasn’t made herself invisible on angel radar or whatever. And assuming she’s not moving around too often. And assuming —”_

“Dean.”

Dean breaks off. A gull is calling somewhere off to Castiel’s left. _“Right, sorry.”_ He pauses. _“I just — we — I just miss you, is all.”_

Castiel frowns. “I’ve been gone far longer than this, many times.”

Dean’s laugh sounds half brittle, half relieved. _“Yeah, well. Who says I didn’t miss you then?”_

\---

The next time they talk, Castiel is in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.

He hasn’t picked up Dean’s calls in a couple days. He feels guilty; he hasn’t been dodging them, exactly, but there’s something — talking to Dean makes him feel a complicated swirl of emotions. It makes him want to abandon his post, his mission — searching for Amara to help keep the Winchesters safe. It makes him wonder if maybe his post, his mission, isn’t back at home.

There are other things, too — the conversation they didn’t have in Purgatory. Dean’s prayer. His careful acceptance of Jack. The way he keeps looking at Cas like he’s something breakable — Castiel can _feel_ it, even over the phone.

And then there are the holidays. Castiel isn’t sure what brought this on, but he knows Dean’s been nesting lately — redecorating his room, cooking as often as he can. He can tell there’s something Dean isn’t telling him, and he wonders if it’s maybe — maybe there isn’t a place for Castiel in all this. Maybe Dean’s trying, too hard, to convince them both that there is.

It’s an old fear — one Castiel’s grappled down many times before. But then, he supposes old fears don’t get to be old fears without some element of the truth.

So he dives back into his search. Dean texts him a photo of Sam in a birthday tiara, which makes him smile; Jack is grinning like the sun. He texts back his own updates. And a photo of Lake Superior, glossy with morning, rippled by the pinpoint of a distant loon.

In Manitowoc, he gives in, and calls Dean.

He loves listening to Dean talk. Dean rambles about Jack — the penchant he’s been developing for smoothies. About Sam — the contact he’s kept up with Eileen. The date they’re going on, in a few days, when she swings through town.

Then Dean pauses. Castiel fully expects his next words: _You know, like you haven’t been._

Instead, Dean says, _“We should do that. Go on a date.”_

Something in Castiel’s chest fuzzes, like static on a TV, and stops.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “What?”

_“We should go on a date. You and me.”_

Castiel wishes he could see Dean’s face. He wishes he had any idea what to say.

_“I’m asking you out, Cas.”_

And he can hear Dean’s nerves now, finally — the crack that works its way into his voice. It’s grounding — reassuring. Castiel swallows once, twice, and asks, “What do I say?”

Dean’s laugh is a tense one. _“Well, uh. The standard responses are ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”_

“Oh. Yes,” says Castiel.

There’s a long silence from Dean’s end of the line. Then he says, _“Okay. Well I guess that’s settled then.”_

“Yes,” says Castiel again.

Dean hesitates. _“Cas, uh — there’s something I haven’t told you about. I mean, it’s kind of dumb, it’s not a big deal, just — around-the-bunker stuff. It’s a good thing,”_ he adds quickly, _“just — well, sort of hard to explain? I’ll tell you when you get home. You’re coming home, right?”_

Castiel squints out the windshield. There are a couple more transects he could still check off, for completeness’s sake. One in Arizona. One along the Georgia-Alabama line.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m coming home.”

#### (2.)

It’s a little after five in the morning when Castiel gets home.

He doesn’t expect anyone to be up. Sam might be, if he’s going for an early run, but he’d be in his room, or the bathroom — he doesn’t usually make coffee until after he’s back. It’s too late for even Dean’s night owl tendencies, and Jack — well, it’s hard to know with Jack.

When he comes down the stairs, though, there’s Dean, head tipped back in one of the library armchairs. His eyes are closed, but he stirs when Castiel’s footfalls sound on the steps.

There’s a cake on the table. It’s half gone, rich-looking chocolate with messy white frosting. The remaining letters across the top say _HAP- BIR- J-._

Castiel studies the cake. Dean rubs his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, bleary, “that’s — that was for Jack.”

“I see,” says Castiel.

“You should — you could have some. If you want.”

Castiel cuts himself a piece. “Did you make it?”

“Yeah.” Dean sits up in his chair, then winces, telltale. Castiel looks up, reaching out with his grace. Dean’s been thrown into a wall recently.

“Dean,” he says, setting aside his plate, “let me.”

Dean winces again, like he’d like to protest, but he doesn’t. He sits very still as Castiel touches his forehead, his shoulder.

Castiel senses bruises, stiff muscles that will be stiffer tomorrow. He has to close his eyes to muster the power to heal them. When he opens them again, he’s swaying, just a little.

Dean is looking up at him, golden lamplight on his cheekbones, shadows under his eyes. “That’s getting hard for you,” he says, “isn’t it.”

It’s not a question. Castiel shrugs, and goes back to his cake.

Dean follows him a moment later, still moving gingerly, but with growing confidence. He slides into a seat across the table from Castiel. He regards the cake for a moment, then reaches out to swipe a dollop of frosting with his index finger. Castiel feels his mouth twitch in a smile.

Dean’s still licking his finger off when he catches Castiel looking. “Hey,” he says. “Chef’s privilege.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Castiel agrees. “What prompted all this?”

He doesn’t mean just the cake. He means the cake, and the holidays, and the birthdays; he means — he means the date. If Dean was serious about that.

He thinks Dean was.

Dean’s mouth quirks. There’s a little fleck of frosting on the corner of it. “Well, uh,” he says. “That’s a funny story.”

\---

“There was a wood nymph,” Castiel repeats. “Living in the bunker.”

“Yep,” Dean agrees. He’s eating more frosting; he pops his finger out of his mouth with relish. “Named — well, the Men of Letters called her Subject B.”

“And they tortured her. Brainwashed her into serving as their housekeeper.”

That makes Dean look a little defensive. “It’s not like we _knew_ that at the time.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, “you merely allowed her to cook holiday meals for you and slowly poison Jack until she decided to finally kill him. And you, once you tried to stop her.”

Dean hesitates. “Yes.”

“I see.”

“She came _around,”_ Dean points out. “Eventually. Once we explained it. A few times.”

Castiel sighs and sets down his fork. “I don’t know what to say.”

Dean’s looking down. “It was dumb. The risk — I should’ve —”

“Dean,” says Castiel gently, “you mistake me.”

Slowly, Dean’s gaze rises back to his face.

“You convinced an ancient, inhuman creature of the value of compassion. You showed _her_ compassion. You let her be part of your lives. It would be deeply hypocritical of me to judge you for that.”

He sees his words catch Dean by surprise. His eyes widen; then he scoffs. Shakes his head. “Cas — no. You’re nothing like her.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows.

But Dean looks visibly upset. “You’re — for one thing, you don’t get to leave like that. When all of this is over. You don’t — I don’t want you to leave.”

The words strike Castiel under his sternum.

_I left, but you didn’t stop me._ Something’s changed since then. The Dean looking over the table at him is softer and stronger and braver than the Dean Castiel met over a decade ago; than the Dean who watched him walk up the stairs. Than the Dean who prayed to him in Purgatory, even — all the Deans he has loved, and somehow he loves this one most of all.

He knows, suddenly — with a thrill of affection, of fear, of sorrow — that Dean will never fail to try and stop him from leaving again.

He’s opening his mouth — to say what, he doesn’t know — when Jack’s voice comes from the doorway. “Cas?”

Castiel feels a smile crack his own features. He rises. “Jack.”

“You’re back,” says Jack. And then, excitedly, “Did you try my cake? Dean made it. It’s really good.”

“I did,” says Castiel, “and it is.” As he moves forward to hug Jack, he can feel Dean’s eyes on his back.

\---

Dean shows them photos on his phone. The war room table, crowned with a massive Christmas tree, a model train running circles around it. Jack grinning by candlelight over a plate full of mashed potatoes. Several photos of rice krispie treats — “I’m going to learn to make those,” Dean vows. He makes Jack and Castiel pose together, shoulder to shoulder, behind what’s left of the cake.

Photos, Castiel thinks; they’ve always meant a lot to Dean. A way of holding onto things you can never keep.

He should take more photos of Dean. “It’s your turn,” he says, gesturing at Dean to take his place. “Give me your phone.”

Dean looks surprised, but he obeys. He smiles when Castiel tells him to, eyes warm and crinkled. Beside him, Jack looks like he just won a lifetime supply of nougat, helpless with delight.

Castiel stares at the photo for a moment after he takes it. Dean’s eyes look like there’s a light in them; like looking back at Cas might make him shine. Castiel has to remind himself to return Dean’s phone — to tear his eyes away.

#### (3.)

It’s a couple days later when Dean walks into the war room, sets a beer in front of Castiel with a _clunk,_ uncaps his own, and says, “So I was thinking Friday. Maybe that pizza place, in town?”

Castiel feels lost. He takes the bottle slowly and twists off the cap. “Friday. For — what?”

Dean’s eyes flicker toward him. He takes a deep swallow from his beer bottle, tipping it back, then grimaces. “For our date.”

“Oh,” says Castiel. Then he remembers Dean’s instructions: _yes or no._ “Okay,” he adds quickly. “Yes.”

“Okay,” echoes Dean. He sits down in the chair opposite Castiel. His limbs are all nervous energy; he looks right, then left. Then, abruptly, he stands up again and leaves the room.

Castiel watches him go.

This all seems quite strange. He wonders if this is how humans normally date.

\---

“Sam,” Castiel asks, “how do humans normally date?”

Sam looks startled. “Uh — what? I mean — um. Don’t you — you’ve dated people before, right? Dean told me about that girl — Nora, in Idaho.”

Castiel pauses to process that. “I never dated Nora,” he explains. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Huh.” Sam pauses. “Dean didn’t say that.”

“Yes, well.” Castiel turns to shut the bedroom door behind him. This seems like a good time for privacy. “I understand you and Eileen recently went on a date. I’d like to know how that worked, please.”

Sam’s face turns a little bit purple. “I mean — Cas.”

Castiel waits.

It seems to work. After several long seconds, Sam lets out a shuddering breath. “Well, it was — a bit different, honestly. I guess _dating_ isn’t a thing Dean or I do a whole lot of, you know? With hunters it’s usually — uh.”

A phrase from his cultural lexicon presents itself in Castiel’s mind. “‘Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’”

It’s remarkable that Sam’s face can turn an even stranger color. “I, uh — yes, I guess. One-night things.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Your date with Eileen was one night.”

“Well — yeah,” says Sam, slowly. “But it — you know, we got dressed up, went out to dinner. And, um, went dancing afterward.”

“Dinner,” Castiel repeats, keeping a mental list. “Dancing. What after the dancing?”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be dancing. It could be just dinner. Or dinner and a movie, or — well, anyway. After that, you could just be done. Often if it’s a first date you are. The really traditional thing would be to drive the girl home, and then — well, I guess it’s conventional wisdom that if it’s a _good_ first date you’ll kiss, but. Really those sorts of codified expectations do more harm than good, you should go at whatever pace you and she both feel comfortable at, and — _is_ it a she?”

Castiel takes a moment to process. Apparently Dean hasn’t told Sam about any of this; he debates how he can safely answer. Finally he says, “No, it’s a he.”

Sam looks startled. “Oh. Oh, well — that’s good too. That probably means you’re a little, uh — more removed from the traditional gender role stuff. But everything I said still applies, more or less.”

Castiel considers. Another half-understood phrase presents itself in his head. “What does it mean to ‘put out’?”

Sam chokes. “What?”

“I’ve heard it said that you should not ‘put out’ until the third date. What does that mean?”

“Um.” Sam looks distressed. “That means — having sex, Cas.”

Castiel takes that information in. “Okay. So typically, on the third date but not prior, one would — after the dinner, et cetera — return to a private location and pursue sexual relations. I see now. That _is_ different from standard hunter practice.”

“I mean.” Sam’s face looks like he’s experiencing pain, which he shouldn’t be; Castiel healed his latest bruises days ago. “Like I said, there’s still — there’s no one way to go about it. If the third date comes and you’re not ready to have sex, that’s _totally fine._ And having sex before the third date is fine, too. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not serious about the person. Or that you are.”

Castiel squints at him. “Did you have sex with Eileen?”

“I am — not talking about this,” says Sam. Then, when Castiel keeps squinting at him: “Well — yes, okay? But don’t you dare tell Dean. It’s none of his — it’s not _any_ of your business.”

His cheeks are pink. But he actually looks a little bit pleased.

“I understand,” Castiel tells him gravely. “Thank you, Sam.”

\---

Castiel spends the next few days considering what _getting dressed up_ might consist of.

He’s aware that his usual garb is reasonably dressed up, by human standards. More dressed up than Dean’s. He could — well, he could try to get _more_ dressed up, but — he’s already received instruction from Dean on what to wear for a date. Now doesn’t seem like the time for second-guessing that.

So on Friday evening, when he walks into the library, he’s wearing his usual dress shirt, but he’s forgone the tie. He’s left an extra button unbuttoned, per Dean’s long-ago advice. He’s carrying his trenchcoat over one arm — it can still get chilly at night these days — but no jacket. He feels a little naked.

Dean’s standing by a bookshelf, waiting for him. He turns when Castiel enters.

For a moment, Castiel’s breath catches in his chest, and he can’t quite look Dean in the eye.

He looks down at the floor instead. At Dean’s shoes — dress shoes, like he wears on cases sometimes, but polished so they gleam. They tap gently on the hardwood floor as he turns.

He’s wearing jeans, but darker jeans than usual — Castiel can’t quite tell if they’re deep gray or black. They’re a different cut, too, slimmer — they hug the lines of his legs. His calves, the bow of his knees, his thighs.

His shirt is a familiar one — the plaid, lavender and blue. He’s wearing it buttoned. His hair is styled carefully, his face clean-shaven, and when Castiel’s eyes finally reach his face, his lips part; his tongue flashes briefly, nervously, against the back of his teeth.

A jolt of feeling shudders through Castiel’s chest.

Dean’s mouth quirks in a brave half-smile. “Hey.”

Castiel swallows. “Hello, Dean.”

Something washes through Dean’s eyes; for a moment he looks completely overwhelmed. Then he says, “You look —”

He stops.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “You too.”

But before either of them can add anything else, there are more footsteps coming, quick on the war room floor.

“— and yeah, that’s your basic set of traffic cams,” Sam’s saying. “For _security_ cams you need to get a bit fancier, but for a start you can go to — oh, hey guys.”

He stops on the threshold, tablet in one hand.

For a moment, the three of them just stare at each other.

Then Dean clears his throat. His cheeks are flushing rapidly red. “Sam. Me and Cas are gonna, uh — go into town for a bit. Might not be back until late.”

Sam glances between them, his forehead creased. “Oh,” he says. And then, more emphatically, _“Oh.”_

“You’re going into town?” And Jack’s there, clattering up the steps from the other direction. “Can I come?”

There’s barely controlled panic growing behind Dean’s eyes. He raises a hand, opens his mouth — then closes it.

Castiel takes a step forward. “Not this time, Jack,” he tries, as kindly as he can.

Jack’s face falls. “Is it — for a case?” he asks carefully. “I know I can’t use my powers, but I can help, I know I can —”

Dean clears his throat. “Not for a case,” he says. “Just, uh.”

But Sam comes to the rescue.

“Jack,” he says quickly, loudly. “I was just showing Eileen how I compile security footage — do you want me to teach you, too?”

“Oh. Yes!” says Jack. He turns, smiling again. “I’d like that.”

Sam moves his tablet to his right arm so he can sling the left around Jack’s shoulders. “Here, let’s work in the kitchen. Eileen, have you met Jack?”

Jack beams, waving at the screen. Castiel thinks of sunflowers.

_You owe me one,_ Sam mouths over his shoulder.

Dean’s nodding fervently. “Yeah,” he mutters, as their voices fade down the corridor. “Yeah, we fucking do.”

Then suddenly he looks stricken. He looks over at Castiel. “Not that — I’m ashamed of — or —”

Castiel holds up a hand. He can feel the smile on his face; the affection welling up within him. For all of them — for Jack, for Sam. For _Dean,_ standing there looking beautiful and terrified and like he wants nothing more in the world than to get this right.

“I agree,” he says gravely. “Now is not the time.”

Dean stares at him for an instant.

Then he bursts out laughing.

And Castiel is laughing too. Dean’s hand is on his shoulder — “Come on, let’s get out of here, Baby’s in the garage. Before anyone else shows up to ask what the hell we’re doing.” And they’re stumbling, still laughing, down the corridors, making good their escape.

#### (4.)

If Castiel expected awkwardness — the fumbling formality of traveling over uncertain ground — he finds none. Dean slides in behind the Impala’s wheel like always; Castiel takes the passenger seat. It could be any other day — any other trip into town — but it isn’t. The air feels alive between them, with laughter, with possibility. Baby’s motor hums up through Castiel’s chest.

They talk about nothing. The usual things. Jack’s latest enthusiasms; Sam’s choice of sweaters. Memories — that time they all went to a _Hell Hazers_ marathon at the movie theater together. The look on Jack’s face when he tried his first warhead candy.

“I missed him,” Dean adds quietly, as they’re pulling up to the curb outside the restaurant. “I don’t — I’m trying, man, I am, but it’s hard. But — I forgot how much I missed him.”

Before Castiel can answer, Dean’s squinting out the window at the sign: _Big Little B &E Pizza Palace. _ He twists a hand on the wheel; his nerves are back. “Is this place — okay? We coulda done fancier.”

Castiel waits until Dean’s looking at him. Until Dean stills a little; stops fidgeting. “Dean,” he says, “it’s perfect.”

\---

Inside, the Pizza Palace isn’t quite palatial, but someone clearly put care into the details. There’s a flower in a vase on their table, and a candle that burns with a clear, soft flame. The exposed brick walls are lined with posters, scenes of Italy — Castiel recognizes some of them from long ago. He murmurs to Dean about Rome in the days of Julius Caesar, about Mt. Vesuvius. About the grotto he used to go to to be alone with his thoughts, the thin strand of beach hidden under cliffs on the isle of Capri.

“Of course, the food was very different then,” he adds, as he opens his menu. “They didn’t have tomatoes.”

For a moment, Dean looks stricken by the concept. Then he laughs out loud.

They order wine — a bottle. Their waitress is Caitlin, Max’s mother; there aren’t many names in this town Dean doesn’t know by now. If she’s surprised to see just the two of them dining in together, she doesn’t show it. She carries the bottle to the table and uncorks it for them, pours them each a glass.

She gives Castiel a smile as she leaves, and he returns it. When he looks back at Dean, he discovers he’s watching him.

Castiel hesitates before taking a sip of his wine. “What is it?”

But Dean shakes his head. He’s smiling, something soft and unintentional. “Nothing. I just — I forgot, actually. When we got into that whole temporal paradox thing, with my Dad coming back, and the baozhu — this is where we ran into your alter ego.”

“Oh,” says Castiel. And then, as the full impact hits him, _“Oh._ Dean — I’m sorry. We could still go somewhere else —”

“Nah.” Dean shifts in his seat. “It doesn’t — bug me or anything. It just — it was different, you know?”

Castiel glances around. “How did it happen?”

“Well, uh.” Dean points to the back door, beside the menu on the wall. “You guys came in through there — you and Zachariah. You were interrogating the kids in here, I guess, and you must’ve pulled a wing show, like — you know — ‘cause Sam and I saw the glow from across the street.”

He hesitates.

“I imagine you came running,” Castiel offers.

“Yeah, I mean — yeah.”

“I imagine you saved the kids, and confronted me and Zachariah. I imagine we tried to kill you.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “That pretty much — sums it up. Sam ganked Zach —” he turns, gesturing to a table in the corner — “then blasted you off with a sigil.”

“I see.” Castiel sips at his wine again. Dean raises his to his nose and gives it a self-conscious sniff; then he takes a sip and raises his eyebrows in approval.

Castiel finds himself smiling helplessly. “I’ve never seen you drink much wine.”

Dean takes another, longer sip. After a moment of contemplation, he sets down his glass. “Yeah, well. Not like Dad ever had it around; I guess I never picked up the habit. And it always seemed — you know.”

_Fancy? Girly?_ Castiel shakes his head. “If there’s one thing I don’t know,” he reminds Dean, “it’s the cultural connotations you attach to particular blends of ethanol, water, and tannins.”

Dean stares at him for a beat — then laughs. “I mean, okay — it just seemed like something for other people, you know? People with real lives and — I don’t know — candlelit dinners. I never saw a hunter drink wine. Not growing up, anyway.”

“We’re having a candlelit dinner.”

Dean holds up his glass in a toast. “And I’m drinking wine.”

Castiel clinks their glasses together.

They lapse into silence for a little while after that. Castiel watches Dean, across the table; watches him fidget with his napkin. Nerves flit over his face from time to time, chased by resolve. He keeps glancing back at Castiel with the faintest expression of awe.

Awe is the word for it, Castiel thinks. That they’re even here. That Dean has asked this of him.

“You didn’t finish telling me what happened,” he reminds him, after a few minutes. “During the temporal paradox.”

“What do you mean?” Dean’s brow creases. “Sam killed Zach, sigiled you, that was pretty much it.”

“What about you?”

Dean laughs. “I mean, I was mostly trying to keep you from pounding my ass into next week.”

“A temporal paradox joke,” Castiel notes, nodding. But — he needs to make himself clear. “Dean — I’m sorry my alternate self hurt you.”

“Well.” Dean rolls his shoulders. “No harm done. Though I don’t mind telling you, Cas, you seemed pretty pissed; I’m glad you didn’t make it back for a second go-round. You — real you — mighta had a stick up your ass, but you were never that much of a dick.”

Castiel tips his head to the side to consider. Caitlin is moving toward their table, carrying a steaming platter; “Oh, hell yes,” Dean says, and scoots back his seat to make space.

The smell rising off the pizza is heavenly, of spicy sausage and fresh mozzarella and onions. The cheese pulls into long strings as Dean serves a slice for Castiel, then himself; he licks some off his finger.

“I was, though,” Castiel says. “Or — I could have been.”

“Hm?”

“A dick,” Castiel clarifies. “I mean — I can’t know for sure, but the way you describe that Castiel, and the other self I met in Apocalypse World — I can see myself in them. I know the pathways I could have gone down. I think things — things might have been very different for me, had I not raised you from Hell.”

For a moment Dean just looks at him. Then he grins and takes a bite of pizza. “So you’re saying — what, I had some kind of magic soul juice, got all over you and turned you into one of the good guys?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Dean chokes.

For a moment, Castiel thinks he’s going to need assistance. His cheeks turn red, then redder; then he holds up a hand and reaches for another long gulp of wine. He meets Castiel’s eyes weakly, looks for a moment like he’s going to say something, then shakes his head and returns to his pizza.

Castiel smiles to himself. He starts on his own slice.

#### (5.)

They polish off the pizza in short order. Before Dean can make himself uncomfortable debating whether to order a second, Castiel flags down Caitlin and does it for him.

They finish the wine. The candle on their table burns low.

Castiel asks Dean to tell him about the holidays.

Dean shifts in his seat. “I guess I never — I dunno. Sam said something, when Mrs. B first popped up, about like — we’re not really holiday people. And man, it made me think — I tried sometimes when we were kids, I really did, but all I had to go on was what I saw on TV, you know? And everything on TV — it’s a whole different world. Like, it’s perfect. There’s never a bucket of fried chicken or — or Dad sleeping one off on the carpet. So a lot of the time it didn’t feel really worth even trying.”

Castiel nods slowly. “The wood nymph offered you a chance at the — TV version.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean shrugs. “It’s not like I can remember any — we didn’t have any family traditions of our own. Maybe when Mom came back, I thought she might — I dunno — but she wasn’t really that kind of mom. And that’s okay.”

He says the last part with a hint of force. Castiel remembers that day in the bunker, years ago now, Dean soft with wonder: _This is Castiel. Cas, this is — Mary. Winchester._

He remembers thinking how long it had been since he’d heard Dean voice his full name. He remembers saying: _Your mother._

For a long moment, his next words hang on the tip of his tongue.

Then he says: “She had Christmas records she would play every year. You were already singing along when you were three. ‘We Three Kings’ was your favorite.”

Dean goes absolutely still.

“Your father would borrow a pickup truck from a friend at work and drive the whole family out to a Christmas tree farm and cut down one you liked. He’d try to make Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and burn half of them. His mother Millie would come visit for the day. For Thanksgiving, your family would go to visit her.”

There’s a fine trembling in Dean’s lower lip. “Did she —?”

“She died,” Castiel tells him gently. “The summer you were four.”

“Oh.” Carefully, Dean blinks; his eyes are shining. “I remember her, a tiny bit. I always thought maybe — she didn’t want us. Or didn’t want to be around us — after.”

Castiel shakes his head. “She loved you a great deal.” He feels a pang of regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“No, it’s —” Dean laughs, a light huff of breath. “How do you know all this stuff, Cas?”

Castiel tilts his head. “I told you. I have held your raw soul in my hands, Dean. There is very little about you I don’t know.”

“Right.” Dean swallows. “And, uh — you’re still here.”

“I am,” Castiel tells him, “very much still here.”

\---

They haven’t ordered dessert, but Caitlin brings it: two plates of tiramisu, elegantly arranged. Dean is still a little raw, smiling up at her with reddened eyes, but she just winks at them. “On the house,” she says in a low voice. “Out-of-towners over there said they didn’t realize it would have coffee in it. I’m not sure they can read.”

The tiramisu tastes divine. Each layer is soaked in espresso and amaretto; the mascarpone topping is sprinkled with chocolate shavings and almonds. “I bet I could make this,” Dean comments. “Never really thought about it before, but — I bet I could.”

“You’re developing quite a list,” Castiel points out, thinking of the rice krispie treats. “But you have my utter faith.”

Laughter kindles warmth in Dean’s eyes. As Caitlin makes her way over with the check, he leans in across the table. “I know it’s, uh,” he says to Castiel, “kind of late, but if you wanted — hey, you’re awesome, you know that?”

Caitlin winks again. “I have an inkling.”

As she turns and walks away again, Castiel steels himself. He understands what’s coming next, and he might be a little terrified, but, well — for Dean. He delivers his most serious nod and speaks before Dean can open his mouth again. “Sam told me there might be dancing.”

Dean does open his mouth — and then shuts it again.

“Danc— what?” Slowly, horror steals over the confusion on his face. “You talked to _Sam?”_

“I — yes,” Castiel admits. “He was very helpful. And I — I did look up locations that have dancing; none of them are in Lebanon, but there a few within a thirty-minute drive.”

Dean looks briefly constipated. He seems to consider several responses and reject them; at last, he drops his eyes to the screen of Castiel’s phone.

He goes abruptly still, then makes a tiny, horrified moan and closes his eyes.

“What?” Castiel asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Cas,” says Dean, “most of these are — these are, like, nightclubs.”

Castiel blinks. “Yes. I understand that those are among the establishments where people go to dance.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, “but like — uh.” He runs his free hand through the hair at the back of his head, mussing it; then, self-consciously, smooths it back into place. “Man, I — I don’t think I’m ready for that, Cas.”

“I understand,” Castiel says gravely. For completeness, though, he picks up his phone and scrolls through the results. “There are other types of dancing businesses, too. Like this one.”

He turns the screen so Dean can see: _Ballroom Dancing Classes with Jason and Yvette._

Dean makes a very small, very unreadable noise.

“Oh,” says a sudden voice behind Castiel’s shoulder. It’s Caitlin, back suddenly with the check; she leans in to look at the screen. “Don’t go to _them,_ they’re terrible. Come by here sometime on an off night — I’ll teach you anything you want to know.”

Castiel is fairly sure both he and Dean are giving her identical blank stares.

Her smile makes her look younger. “I used to teach. Before — well, before a lot of things. I keep dreaming about opening up my own studio here, but — you boys have been good to my Max. I’d be glad to show you some basics for free.”

“Right,” says Dean, slowly. “I — thanks, Caitlin. How’s Max doing, anyway?”

“Much better. She and Stacy went through a bit of a scare a while back, they won’t tell me too much about it, but — well, no harm done. And no more cars stolen, either!” She touches Dean’s shoulder. “Enough of that, though. You two get back to your date.”

She says it casually. Like the most natural thing in the world.

Dean opens his wallet slowly, counts out a copious tip. He holds it in his hand for a second, then squares his shoulders, breathes out, and looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“Cas,” he says, carefully, “I’m — I’d like to try dancing with you. I would. But — look, man, I’m half scared out of my mind with this shit already, can we — another time? Maybe? Give me a minute to get used to — this?”

Castiel is fairly sure his shoulders slump with relief. “Yes, I — I agree.”

Dean breathes out shakily. “Okay. Okay. We could — head back to the bunker, or if you want I thought — maybe just go for a drive?”

A drive. Driving with Dean is a thing Castiel knows. “Yes,” he agrees. “A drive sounds nice.”

They push back their chairs. Castiel collects his trenchcoat. Outside, at the Impala, Dean hesitates. Then he holds out the keys to Castiel. “Do you want to —?”

It’s a statement of trust. Of openness — to whatever comes next.

But Castiel shakes his head. He wants Dean in the driver’s seat beside him; he wants Dean’s music on the tape deck, Dean’s fingers curled around the wheel. Because this is new, but — it’s old, also. “I’d like you to,” he says, and his voice comes out deeper than he intends, more gravelled. “I like — I like it when you drive.”

#### (6.)

Dean puts Zeppelin on the tape deck. The bass riff pounds through the speakers as he swings the Impala out of its parking space, as he turns onto the highway.

Once the town lights are behind them, he leans on the gas. Castiel watches the speedometer inch higher; feels the leather of his seat press into his back. He settles into it comfortably; he’s grown to know this, to love it. It isn’t flying, but — in some ways it’s better.

_Ain’t no time for hesitating,_ Robert Plant sings. _All you got to do is move._

The night outside is warm. They’re pushing 80 when Castiel leans forward to roll down his window; the wind roars into the cab. When he glances up, Dean is looking at him, surprised. Castiel raises an eyebrow in challenge and turns the volume up.

Dean laughs, full-throated. Then he rolls his own window down too.

How long they drive like that, Castiel doesn’t know. The tape runs out, and he replaces it with the next Zeppelin he can find. The wind swirls around him, plucks at the collar of his shirt. Outside, the night races past them. Baby’s headlight beams carve their path through the dark.

_If the rivers run dry, baby, how do you feel —_

The wind could be Castiel’s blood. He isn’t drunk, but he feels like he could be — on the darkness, on the music, on knowing nothing of what’s to come. He wants to reach out and touch Dean. Kiss him, maybe. Press hands to his skin.

At some point when he’s lost in those thoughts, the stars come out. Castiel glances out the windshield, and the world isn’t tractless black anymore — somewhere out there are fixed points of light.

Dean is slowing. His high beams cut across the rumble strip, into a shoulder that might be a right-turn lane. And the Impala is rolling onto gravel, turning toward open country. Castiel can see the north star.

_All I need from you — is all your love. All you got to give to me — is all your love —_

Dean accelerates again. Gravel crackles under their wheels. The world feels more hushed now, though, heavy with anticipation. The night air is growing just a little bit cold.

When they park, it’s on a grassy bluff above the river. Town lights glow orange somewhere out on the horizon, but here it’s only them and the stars.

Dean opens his car door, then circles to Castiel’s. He grips his hand to help him out. His skin is warm.

Somewhere below them, the river rushes faintly. Wind sighs in the cottonwood leaves. Dean moves away again, opening the Impala’s back door and leaning inside; when he emerges, he has two beers in his hand. He passes Castiel one.

Castiel opens it and joins Dean on the hood of the Impala. Her metal is warm against his thighs. The wild pulse of wanting feels quieter, now, contentment pooling in its place.

“Cas, can I ask you something?”

Castiel turns his head.

Dean’s whole body is pivoted towards him — easily, naturally. He lifts his beer to his lips and drinks while he waits for Castiel’s answer.

“Of course.”

It takes Dean a moment to lower the bottle again. Then he asks, “Why’d you — say yes?”

Castiel thinks about it.

It’s the simplest and most complicated of questions. He said yes because he was always going to say yes, because he can barely remember a time he didn’t yearn for Dean. He said yes because at some point the multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent that he is developed free will; because it developed the capacity to love. He said yes because he is Dean’s as Dean is his; because he touched a man’s soul, long ago, and thought, _This is greater than me._

He said yes because Dean asked. He said yes because he thought Dean never might ask. He said yes because he wants to know what that third date would be like, and because he’d be happy to live in their first one forever.

“I think for the usual reasons people say yes to dates,” he finally answers.

“Oh,” Dean says, very quietly.

“Why did you ask?”

Dean laughs. He tips his head back, eyes on the constellations. “I guess for the usual reasons, too.”

Castiel waits a moment. Then he ventures, “Sam says — sometimes on a first date, if it’s been a good one, there’s a kiss at the end.”

He half expects Dean to snort: _Is that all Sam says?_ He doesn’t, though. A frisson of tension passes through his shoulders and fades.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. The eyes he turns toward Castiel are cautious.

“He also says,” Castiel adds, “that it’s okay if there isn’t. That — _those sorts of codified expectations do more harm than good._ That we should go at a pace that feels comfortable for both of us.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment. His jaw works. “Right,” he says.

“Dean,” asks Castiel, “may I kiss you?”

Dean inhales sharply.

His eyes are wide. He’s looking at Castiel like he’s seeing him for the first time — like he doesn’t intend to look at anything else ever again.

“Yeah,” he says. “I — yeah.”

Castiel turns toward him.

He braces himself his right hand on the Impala’s hood. With his left, he tilts up Dean’s chin. Touches his jaw.

He hangs there for a moment — their faces close. He can see the stars reflected in Dean’s eyes.

Then he tilts Dean’s chin a fraction further and kisses him.

Dean makes a soft sound. His lips part under Castiel’s.

Castiel pulls back.

Dean’s eyes are fixed on his face, pupils blown wide. His parted lips, the set of his chin, make him look vulnerable. The ache of love tightens in Castiel’s chest.

Dean is propped on both arms, leaning back onto the Impala’s hood. When he frees one, the other shakes briefly with the effort of taking his weight.

“Cas,” he says, touching Castiel’s hip. And then, “Cas,” again, more urgently, with a hand on his face.

Castiel kisses him again.

This time, Dean’s whole body arches into him. The wings of his ribcage press into Castiel’s; his hand clutches at Castiel’s shoulder. His mouth is open, tongue sliding against Castiel’s, and Castiel makes his own helpless noise this time, punched-out, and slots his leg between Dean’s to get closer.

He wants to touch every part of Dean. To memorize his ribs, his wrists, his mouth. He wants to kiss him so thoroughly even the stars remember. He’s kissed people before; he’s done more. None of that felt like this.

Dean’s got his fingers hooked in Castiel’s shirt collar, head thrown back to let Castiel’s lips graze his throat, when suddenly his palm flattens against Castiel’s chest. “Wait — wait.”

Castiel stills instantly — pulls back.

But Dean doesn’t let him go. His fingers stay clenched in Castiel’s shirt; his other hand is on Castiel’s hip. He’s breathing unsteadily, tipping his face forward so Castiel can’t see it, and when he speaks, it’s into Castiel’s collarbone. “Sorry, I — Cas, if we keep going like this, I’m gonna — in a few minutes I’m gonna be begging you for a hell of a lot more.”

Desire races itself down Castiel’s limbs. He squeezes, lightly, at the back of Dean’s neck; when his voice comes out it’s unsteady. “I’m not sure I see the problem.”

He feels Dean’s exhale gust hot against the bare skin of his neck. “I — shit, Cas, you really — but I do.”

“Okay.” Castiel disentangles himself from Dean, reluctantly; Dean’s fingers hook around his button before they let him go. Standing back, he regrets the loss of contact between them even more. Dean’s hair is mussed, his mouth swollen, his legs in their clinging jeans bowed wide.

He sits up fully and runs a hand through his hair. The look he gives Castiel is self-conscious. “Sorry. I just — Cas, I, uh. I’m not very — good at this.”

Castiel can’t help raising his eyebrows.

Dean laughs. Some of the tension goes out of him. “No, that — _that_ I’m pretty good at. I mean, like — the commitment stuff.”

Slowly, Castiel nods. He moves to sit beside Dean on the Impala’s hood again, a respectable foot away. “And you’d like to commit,” he ventures. “To me.”

Even in the dark, he can see the blush staining Dean’s cheeks. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Castiel holds out his hand to Dean.

Dean takes it, threading their fingers together, squeezing tight. It’s a novel sensation. Castiel thinks he could get used to it.

“I got a whole lot of booby traps up here,” Dean says eventually. With his free hand, he taps his forehead. “Hang-ups, the works. I mean, I dunno about you, Cas, but I coulda done this ten years ago, easy. If not for — I dunno.”

Castiel considers, then nods his agreement. “Yes. I could as well.”

That seems to startle Dean for a moment. Then he plunges on. “But I guess — the whole holidays thing, and then Sam with his date — it all made me realize. Sometimes, doing things the TV way, it lets you — I dunno. Stop worrying, and just do them instead.”

Castiel thumbs Dean’s pulse; it flutters under the skin of his wrist. “And you’re afraid that if we have sex tonight, you’ll start worrying again.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice comes out a little throaty; his fingers tighten again. “I mean — don’t get me wrong, Cas, I’m not exactly a prude over here. Third date, I am _all_ in.”

Castiel hums his understanding. The constellations are setting, slowly, sky wheeling around them. “I thought it was ‘out,’” he says eventually. “‘Put out’. That means having sex, according to Sam. He didn’t say anything about ‘all in’.”

For a moment, Dean’s absolutely still beside him.

Then he snorts with laughter. “You asshole,” he says. “You almost had me. ‘All in’.”

Castiel watches him fondly. Affection swells inside his ribs. “Time to return to the bunker, do you think?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, smiling. He touches Castiel’s shoulder before he turns to collect their beer bottles. “Yeah, let’s drive.”

#### (7.)

It’s so late it’s nearly morning when they finally pull back into the bunker’s garage. Dean walks Castiel down the corridor to his bedroom, then kisses him — once, then two more times, against the tiled wall — good night.

It’s after noon the next day before Dean stumbles into the kitchen, rumpled and robe-clad and smiling like he can’t help himself. By then, Castiel has already conferenced with Jack and Sam, helped them with the final stages of the plan they started on last night.

There’s a cake on the table, along with two pies. _Happy Birthday!_ balloons tied to the handle of the fridge, streamers on the walls. A bouquet of sunflowers in a vase on the table.

Dean stops up short when he comes in the door. He squints around: at Jack’s beaming face, Sam’s half-suppressed laughter. At Castiel.

“Wait,” he says, pointing at the cake.

Castiel places a mug of coffee in his outstretched hand. Dean takes it and drinks, mechanically, then pivots toward Cas. “I didn’t — it’s your birthday? I didn’t even know you had a birthday. Shit.”

Sam gives up on holding back his laughter. Jack joins in, high and happy. “No,” he proclaims, when Dean looks back at him, “it’s _yours.”_

Dean blinks.

Then he shakes his head again. _“My_ birthday’s in January. It’s been a weird year, but I’m pretty sure it’s not January right now.”

“Sam said that’s no reason not to celebrate,” Jack declares with authority. “And _I_ thought, we might be dead by then anyway — if I can’t kill God, I mean — so why not do it now?”

It seems to take Dean a moment to process that logic. Then he shrugs. “Well, you know I never say no to pie.”

But when he starts forward, Jack slides the plate away. “It’s a _birthday._ We have to do cake first. With a candle. Do you like the flowers? Cas helped me make them grow fast!”

He turns away to clatter in the drawers, finding the candles, a matchbook. Dean in leans close to Castiel. He asks, in an undertone, “You knew about this?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Only this morning.”

“Well —”

“The hat?” Sam interrupts loudly. “Yes, we’re _definitely_ making him wear the hat.”

The next moment, Jack’s planting a brightly colored paper cone on Dean’s head, stretching the elastic around his chin. Dean blinks twice, then levels an accusing finger at Castiel. “Okay, you are not getting out of this. If you don’t have a birthday you’re gonna pick one. Or else.”

Castiel smiles. “September,” he offers. “Eighteenth.”

He watches surprise, then softness, wash over Dean’s face.

“And one, two — _Happy birthday to you —”_

Sam is carrying the cake, newly crowned with a lit candle. Jack hovers at his elbow, singing through a wide smile. Dean looks for a moment like he’d like to object — then sighs and pushes back his seat for them to pass through.

_“Happy birthday to you,”_ Castiel joins. _“Happy birthday, dear Dean — happy birthday to you.”_

Dean scowls at him. “Make a wish!” Jack commands.

Dean’s eyes don’t so much as flicker away from Castiel’s. Something in them softens, though. Maybe it’s just the reflection of the candle flame, warming his face. Maybe it’s something like hope — like love.

_This. I wish for — this._ It sounds in Castiel’s mind, the faintest thread of a prayer.

Castiel cheers along with Jack and Sam as Dean blows his birthday candle out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Natalie for letting me absolutely torment her with this one!
> 
> I'll get a rebloggable link up on tumblr in a bit here, I've had a bit of whiskey this evening and am rather tired so maybe... watch this space. ETA: [Here it is!](https://gravelghosts.tumblr.com/post/632953837681098752/first-date-spn-1514-coda-deancas-9k-rating)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! <3


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